Don't think Just play
by KuroiCho
Summary: A young pianist is stressed about upcoming music institution entrance exams and finds the cure in her dream.


A/N: I have no idea if there's a music institute in Manchester. I just picked up a random English city, and besides I like the name "Manchester". It even has an own song in the musical "Hair". And even though I myself play the piano, this is not from my own life. I have never won a junior contest, for example. I've never even entered one.

Disclaimer: I do not make any money with this or even become famous with this, I just have a major writer's block and am trying to cure it by writing something nice (read: anything else than my Finnish treatise).

* * *

I fiddle the letter in my hands for the umpteenth time. I can slowly feel the panic edging into my stomach. I glance again at the words, somehow hoping they would have somehow changed during the few minutes. Just a few numbers. Just a few days more time. Few months. Years.

_Dear Ms. Downing,_

_We're pleased to inform you that the practical examination of the entrance exams to the Musical Institute of Manchester will take place on 14th of December. The test starts at 14.00 but we advise you to arrive early. We'll receive the applicants in alphabetical order, so the waiting time may vary. We ask you to gather in the entrance hall and cafeteria.._

..and so on. The rest did not matter. Just the one, _first_ sentence. 14th of December. It is the 13th. I still don't fully master the composition. For the first time in my 11-year-long pianist's career my own piano has let me down. When it comes to music, since I started playing at the age of 7 I've been able to go through anything I've wanted to. I entered the conservatory. I won the junior contest of my town. Daddy's and Mommy's little prodigy, yes. But now..

I sigh, put down the letter and reluctantly turn to look at my instrument. It's old, but it still has a great voice. The lacquer has pretty much lost its polish, there's a few knock marks on the legs and scratches on the keyboard cover. But I love it. I step over and sit on the bench. I have the notes in front of me but I don't need them. I know how the song goes. At least, in my head. Somehow I never manage to get it quite right when I try to play it.

I start once again. Yes, the familiar beginning, g minor. The song quickens a bit, but I follow. Change of key, F major. I follow. Then, the odd point. The point where I positively think the composer lost his mind or something. The key changes again, as does the tempo. G flat minor, 12/8. Have you ever heard of something like that? Nu-uh. I hesitate, my fingers collide and instead of a graceful descending from b to d flat, they tumble down to an ear-screeching dissonance. I sigh again, bitter disappointment smarting in my throat. I don't even try to continue and close the lid over the keyboard.

I get up, get to shower and try to accept the fact that I'll in no way get accepted to the institute. At least, not this year. _I can always try again next year_, I try to console myself. I sound even more pathetic in my own head.

I go to bed early, saying I need a good rest for tomorrow's event. Truthfully I know that if I'd stay up I'd just sit in front of my piano and play again and again and again.. and never get it right. Though I'm not getting any sleep either. I toss and turn in my bed, trying to find a comfortable position which I never do. I finally fall asleep, my cover tangled around my legs and my pillow on the floor. I sleep and, surprisingly, dream...

* * *

It's a piano. A _grand piano_. It's new, shiny, beautiful. Any other time I'd run over to it, try its shiny polish and its sound.. but now I'd just rather see it burn to the ground.

"Oh Christ, won't you leave me the hell alone?" I ask myself. I can hear the bitterness in my tone. I stare at it, and it does nothing. Why should it? It's a piano, for god's sake.

"I'm not going to play you. You aren't even mine." A short silence. "Go away", I snap and turn my back on it. And at the same time, turn to face someone.

I stand quietly for a moment. _Why didn't I hear him before?_ I wonder. I look up his face. God, he's tall, much taller than me and I consider myself fairly tall when compared to most of the people I know. I realize it's been quiet for a pretty long time, but I sure as hell don't want to be the first one to speak. On a second look, he's actually quite.. beautiful, in one way. The creepy way. He's wearing only black, a black cloak.. or something that remind a cloak. It doesn't really look like a real cloth. More like he's wearing a shadow. Pale face, paper white, in fact, only emphasized by the wild mass of black hair framing his face. He doesn't actually look angry or threatening, but when I look into his eyes (_Does he even have eyes? They're just black like midnight._) I hope -in some level- that I would have chosen to stare at the grand piano.

"Amanda Downing", he speaks my name all of a sudden. I hardly prevent myself from jumping. I briefly consider answering to him, then notice my tongue seems to have dried in my mouth. He waits for a moment, to see if I'll talk, then continues,

"I'm disappointed in you. You have the gift of music, yet you toss it away at the first counter of hardship. You have given up too easily. Has the pride and praising filled your head?"

I feel offended. A complete stranger, who I've never met before, who has _no idea_ what I've been through, comes in my dreams to mock over my shortcomings? Who does he think he is?

"They have not", I surprise myself by speaking, "But I do find it offensive for a total stranger to start berating me for something he knows nothing about. Have _you_ grown up in a family where everyone thinks everything for you, without even asking for your opinion?" The bitterness smarts in my throat, physically this time. "It's not like I wanted to play the piano, it was my mother who put me in it. Said I needed musical education. Bollocks to that, she just wanted to be able to boast with me, wanted to see me to succeed in something she never did." I stop, hesitate. "Why am I telling this to you? Who _are_ you, anyway?"

He seems to consider his words for a while.

"I am called by many names", he finally says, "but most of all I am the lord of this reality. I am The Prince of Stories and protector of all arts. You know me well, Amanda Downing, and I know you. You've visited my realm often, both awake and asleep." He looks deep in my eyes. "Do you remember me?"

My throat feels dry. "Yes."

"Good. And now I say to you, take place in front of that piano and play what you know you must play." I shake my head.

"No. I won't. I don't want to. I don't want to hear it again, I'll just accept I'll never be able to complete that _stupid_ song and.." I could go on forever. The thought of playing is enough to make my hands and fingers ache.

"Amanda", he speaks again, a sharper undertone now clearly audible in his voice, "play the song you know you must." I have no courage to stand against him. I turn around, walk the short distance to the piano and sit down onto the bench. I lift the cover and place my fingers on the keyboard. I hesitate. I feel his gaze on the back of my head, lower my eyes and start playing.

The sound is very different from my own piano's. It doesn't sound like any of the pianos I've heard. It's.. like a whole orchestra. All the different tones and voices, all the nuances and vibrations melting into one huge sound coming out from the instrument. It's perfect. I can feel it. Encouraged by the sound I carry on with the composition, playing it more perfectly than I've ever done before. Then it hits me. The part, the odd change. I panic, my fingers hesitate on the keyboard. _I can't do this_, I think, _I really don't, and oh God I don't want to fail in front of him, I really, _really..

I feel something cool pressing on my face and realize he's covered my eyes with his hands. I start panicking but then he speaks,

"Don't think. Just play."

I swallow, take a shuddering but deep breath and flex my fingers slightly. I start again, a few bars before the tricky part. _I can't make it, don't think. Don't think._

G flat minor. I follow. Tempo 12/8. I follow. I feel my fingers flowing down the keys and can hear the music in my ears. Perfect. I finish the song, feeling both triumphant and nervous. _Was it perfect, after all? _I wonder, _Did he like it?_

He removes his hands from my eyes.

"See? I knew you could make it."

I turn to look at him and find him smiling slightly. I smile back.

"I did it. I thought I'd never be able to, but I did." My smile broadens. "I've found the joy of music for the first time." He nods,

"And for that I am glad, child."

"Can I.. play it again?" I ask.

"Be my guest", he answers.

I play it again, repeating his words in my head. _Don't think, just play._ I play. It's still perfect. After the third time I finally feel content and stand up.

"I.. I think I'll make it in tomorrow's exam", I say.

"I _know_ you'll make it", he says behind me. I turn around to thank him, but he's already gone, and I realize I'm waking up..

* * *

I feel disgruntled to find myself in my own, old room. I sit up in my bed and take a look at my piano. Then I take another look at it. The keyboard cover is open. I strain my memory to remember if I closed it after yesterday's practice and then decide to forget it. I get dressed, pack my bag and go downstairs to get some breakfast before going to the exam. I don't even consider taking my notes with me as I close the door.

* * *

It's January. 18th of January, to be more exact. The day the examination results should arrive. I sit in front the window, waiting for the post to arrive. I've been sitting here for a quite long time already. My dad walks past me and laughs gently at my eagerness. I smile slightly to myself and continue watching. Then I raise my head. A figure.. dressed in a dark uniform. The postman! I watch him stop at our letter-box, putting something in and walking away. I practically jump into my shoes and run out of the door not even bothering to put a coat on. It's freezing cold, but I'm quickly back inside. I kick the shoes off my feet and run upstairs to my room. Running to my bed I sit down and rip open the letter. My eyes scanning the text hungrily, I search for the key word..

I find it. I stare at it. Then I let out a sigh.. and smile. I close my eyes, press the letter against my chest as if hugging it and vigorously repeat the words over and over in my head.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, _thank you_.


End file.
